


Interlude in Vergen

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 08:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10433100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: While roaming the wilds surrounding the dwarven city of Vergen, Iorveth discovers a hotspring and makes a mental note to return. He's not the only one to make this discovery, however...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Contains explicit scenes between two males.  
> Author's notes at the end, along with elvish translations.  
> Feedback welcome :)

Iorveth efficiently stripped himself of the piecemeal armour, sword and bow that had become a part of him. This was followed by his worn garments, and lastly, the crimson headscarf. He sank into the water gratefully, keen to wash away the day’s toils. The Elf submerged himself in the steaming water then began to work out the tangles in his shoulder-length black hair. 

The hot springs had been a welcome surprise when Iorveth had stumbled upon them; one of the only things that was keeping him sane amongst the horde of _dh’oine_ and dwarves that crowded the streets of Vergen. But he had sworn to aid Saskia-dragonslayer and he would not rescind his oath – no matter how much the place grated on his nerves.

It had been desperation that had driven the Scoia’tael leader into the surrounding woods, despite all the posters warning about Harpies, Drowners and deserters from both armies who’d turned to banditry. Iorveth had welcomed the challenge; the chance to be doing _something_. And so he’d begun hunting monsters.

When Geralt had heard about his new pastime he’d drily wondered if they’d be competing for contracts and, more importantly, if Iorveth needed any tips on Witching.

But the Man had not intervened any further. It had been clear to Iorveth that Geralt did not have the time nor energy to pursue these monsters _and_ track down the magical artefacts needed to lift the cursed fog. The sooner the barrier was eliminated, the sooner they could meet Henselt’s army on the battlefield.

Iorveth’s mind continued to wander as he finished washing, then rested against the pool’s edge. The hot water steamed around him and before he knew it, Iorveth drowsed…

 

0o0o0o

 

A hand on his shoulder jolted Iorveth from reverie. Instinctively, the Scoia’tael leader gripped the male’s arm and used the solid weight of the ledge at his back to flip the assailant over his head and into the water. Iorveth lunged for the male; intending to snap his opponent’s neck. The tendrils of silver in the water caught his eye; a flash of recognition hit the Elf. His attacker was hauled upright.

“Such poor judgement will get you killed one day, _dh'oine_.” He growled.

Geralt stood before the archer, naked from the waist up; water streaming from his hair. He folded his arms, clearly unimpressed with the situation. 

“That’s funny. I was going to say the same to you.” The White Wolf countered sarcastically. “As far as I am aware, elves cannot breathe underwater. And you’re wrong - I’m not a human.”

“Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that _‘dh’oine’_ and ‘idiot’ are not synonymous. In this instance I’m referring to your stupidity, not your heritage.” Iorveth hit back.

“Next time you’re in danger of drowning in your sleep, remind me to leave you be.”

The Elf had no reply to that. What could he say? It _had_ been reckless; _utterly stupid_ to allow himself to fall asleep in such a place. _Esseath bloede arse!_ Iorveth savagely berated himself.

Movement caught his eye and Iorveth watched in bewilderment as the Man grasped his belt and began to remove the rest of his now sodden clothing. He didn’t bother to wring his pants out before throwing them in a pile at the edge of the water.

“I wasn’t aware this was going to be a communal bath.” Iorveth snarled, finally.

“I hear thermal springs are supposed to be excellent for the skin.” Geralt ignored him. “Ah, and I see you have soap…” And with that, the Witcher reached around Iorveth and snatched up the bar of soap the Elf had left there.

Annoyed, Iorveth hoisted himself out the water, fully intending to leave the Man to his impromptu bath. Geralt’s voice stopped him.

“I found this place when I was looking for the entrance to the catacombs. Thought I’d come back and take a bath. I didn’t realise you’d beat me to it. I perhaps should have attempted to rouse you differently.”

A pair of boots and a change of clothing had been set down next to Iorveth’s, proving the Man had spoken truthfully.

Iorveth pulled on his spare pants, hesitating over his bandanna for a moment. He covered his indecision quickly, not wanting the Man to see. Too late to don it again now – the Witcher had already seen his scarring. And to put it on would only highlight his discomfort to the other. The archer returned to lounge near the water’s edge, silently acknowledging the apology in the Man’s words.

 Geralt glanced up from his ministrations. “Trust an Elf to sniff out a thermal spring. Do you just _know_ where to locate a body of water, or would I have to aim you in the right direction first?” Geralt teased him.

This earned the pale warrior a withering glare.

“How original. I haven’t heard one that before.” Iorveth’s words were coated in sarcasm. “Please, by all means, continue - I’m dying to hear another joke about elves and water.”

“I can’t fault you for it – immersion beats the bucket and washcloth method any day.”

Iorveth snorted. “You call that bathing? More like smearing the dirt from one end of your body to the other. I don’t know how anyone can stand to live in such an unwashed, unclean place.”

“As opposed to drafty, bat-infested caves, stinking swamps, and monster-filled forests?” Geralt wondered.

“Exactly!” Iorveth barked out a laugh. “My forebears would be rolling in their graves. They dwelt in great cities – we dwell in rat-holes.”

 “Feeling old?”

Iorveth regarded his unlikely ally. But the glowing, cat-like eyes did not mock him. The Witcher himself was long-lived, after all…

“So it would seem.” Iorveth decided to change the topic. “Where are your half-shadows? Or did you frighten them off when you mentioned the word ‘water’?”

“Skalen and Zoltan? I have only just escaped their clutches. Dice may be over, but the drinking contest is in full swing. Drinking with dwarves never ends well for me.”

“Oh? Surely your mutations allow you to drink them under the table; thus making a name for yourself in their dwarvish pissing contest?”

“Witchers have a high tolerance for alcohol, but we can still get drunk. It’s the waking up the next morning that worries me. There was the time I woke up in prison. Or the time I woke up naked on the streets of Visima. Though I can’t blame Zoltan for this one…”

Geralt gestured to his neck and Iorveth’s gaze settled on the tattoo of a naked lady brandishing a sword; three cross motifs – one above her head and one on either side of her body. It seemed familiar somehow.

“The blue stripes tattoo.” Iorveth declared flatly when it came to him.

“Not one of my better decisions.”

“Allying yourself with Roche and his curs or the charming artwork?”

“Roche got me out of the dungeons and into Flotsam. He could have let me hang for Foltest’s murder. I may have celebrated this fact with them a little too hard upon my arrival in Flotsam. I’m told it’s removable. But I have bigger things to worry about right now. Like the Kingslayer. And the ghosts in the fog.”

A flash of bitterness and fury came over Iorveth at the mention of the Scoia’tael’s betrayer. “I hope you catch him, _Gwynbleidd_. And when you do, I’d like to be there.”

“Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of your book.”

“What?”

“Anthill? Honey? Stormriders? Ringing any bells?” Iorveth grinned darkly, remembering his words to Geralt at their first meeting. If, no – _when_ – he got the chance he would make Letho scream for _days_ before ending his miserable existence.

They fell into silence, and Iorveth leaned back on his elbows to gaze at the stars while Geralt bathed.

“There was another reason I abandoned the game. I was losing quite spectacularly at strip dice poker.”

Iorveth’s head snapped up, and he examined Geralt’s face for traces of a ruse.

“You astound me, _Gwynbleidd_. Even the most gruesome of sights on the battlefield must pale in comparison to the sight of a naked dwarf. Why seek such a thing?”

Geralt grimaced. “I’ve asked myself the same question.”

“Perhaps you _enjoy_ looking at them?”

For a moment Geralt stared at him. Then he returned the smirk. “You’re kicking yourself for not being there, I understand. Maybe you should just tell Zoltan how you feel about him…”

Iorveth snatched up Geralt’s clean garments and quickly plunged them into the water, soaking them. “You were saying?”

Geralt dropped his hand into the water and cast a Sign. Iorveth found himself with a face full of water.

“You’ll pay for that, _pavienn.”_ he growled.

“Bring it on, _Elf_.”

There was a pause before Iorveth lunged for Geralt. Knowing the water would rob him of force, he aimed a kick to Geralt’s head whilst he was still in the air. Geralt jerked out of the way and waited for the Elf to land, then drove his shoulder into the Scoia’tael leader. Still off-balance, Iorveth went underwater briefly.

“They’ll have to change your wanted poster. Woodland Fox, my ass - You look more like a drowned weasel than any fox I’ve ever seen.” The Witcher taunted.

Blood sang through his veins as Iorveth launched another attack on the white-haired warrior. They traded blows with their arms, the water making their legs sluggish. Geralt’s face held a feral smile – one which Iorveth knew he mirrored.

He’d wanted to test himself against this Man’s skills ever since he’d seen Geralt easily dispatch the guards on the prison boat. While Iorveth’s weapon of choice was the bow, he was also a proficient swordsman and open-handed fighter. And he would not back down.

Very quickly, he sensed that the _vatt’ghern_ was holding back. Furious at the condescension, Iorveth got past Geralt’s defences and struck him hard in the ear.

“Don’t insult me, _Gwynbleidd.”_ He warned the Man.

The pale-haired male winced, and took a defensive stance. “Sorry.” he offered shortly. “Force of habit.”

Iorveth’s fury abated somewhat as he considered the Man’s words. Geralt was used to dispatching monsters and enemies – where inhuman strength and speed was a blessing. But fistfights with Men? Of course he would have to pull his punches lest he do damage. Or end up on the wrong end of superstitious mob. _Not arrogance then._

“I’m _Aen Seidhe_ , Geralt. Show me how you _fight.”_

Geralt obliged him.

The battle between Man and Elf went on as they grappled and hit out at one another. He’d landed a few good blows, though Iorveth knew he’d also be sporting bruises in the morning. He didn’t care. The Scoia’tael leader deliberately allowed himself to feel the frustration of the past few days and directed it into his strikes. He wondered if Geralt was doing the same.

He felt the battle shift. They were fairly evenly matched in skill. But Geralt had alcohol in his system, and he had been searching for days for the objects that would lift the cursed fog separating Saskia’s and Henselt’s forces. Still, a victory was a victory. Iorveth sensed an opening. In a move, the Elf immobilised Geralt’s arms, pinning him to the natural wall of the hot springs.

“You are defeated, _vatt’ghern_.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Iorveth felt the Man’s fingers twitch and his eye widened as he realised the Witcher was about to cast a Sign.

“Oh no you don’t!” Iorveth snarled as Geralt opened his mouth and he did the only thing he could to cut the Man off. He closed the distance and crushed their mouths together, grinding his body harder against his adversary and pressing him into the sharp rocks at his back.

Geralt grunted in either pain or surprise, perhaps a mixture of both and the Sign failed.

Withdrawing his mouth fractionally, he glared at Geralt. “Yield.” Iorveth demanded, feeling the Man’s breath ghost across his cheek.

Golden eyes flickered to Iorveth’s mouth briefly – the only warning he got before the Witcher proceeded to kiss him hungrily.

Not one to have the tables turned on him, the Elf struggled with the Man as their tongues warred with one another. Iorveth could feel his battle lust rapidly changing into another form of lust. For what was sex between two males, but a battle for dominance?

He shifted against the other male, deliberately brushing his thigh against Geralt and came into contact with the Man’s swelling arousal. _Not a feint to win the battle then_? Deciding to test his theory, Iorveth relaxed his grip on the other’s arms and was immediately crushed to the Witcher’s body. A calloused hand slid up his arm and into his hair where it fisted and forced Iorveth’s head back roughly. A warm mouth explored the Elf’s now exposed throat.

Iorveth let out a guttural groan as he felt teeth on his skin. His hands wandered over the warrior’s back, tracing the scars he found there with interest. A warm mouth trailed its way up to Iorveth’s pointed ear and he shivered involuntarily when Geralt traced the length of it with his tongue.

“Have I found a weakness?”

Iorveth hissed when a warm mouth sucked on the tip experimentally.

“Ah. So these lovely ears _are_ sensitive.” Warm breath hit the abandoned point of his ear and set the nerves tingling.

Iorveth twisted in the Witcher’s arms as the man continued his assault.

“Never….been with an _Aen Seidhe_ before, _Gwynbleidd?_ ” he replied, unsteadily. “I…I find that hard to believe.”

“Elves are hard to read. Getting it wrong could be fatal.”

Iorveth huffed a laugh. Freeing his ear, Iorveth turned his head and began an assault of his own on the Witcher’s mouth. He bit down on the man’s lip in retaliation, before soothing the wound with his tongue. His hands explored the Witcher’s torso and body, tracing over smooth flesh and rigid scars.

Geralt’s hand cupped Iorveth’s chin and Iorveth found his mouth thoroughly explored. He hummed in approval. The Elf let a hand drop below the water and firmly massaged Geralt’s erection, causing the man to groan into his mouth and press his body into Iorveth’s.

“Does this explain my feelings on the matter?” he teased, moving his thigh between the Witcher’s legs and giving him the friction he desired.

Geralt’s cat-like pupils had dilated slightly and his ragged breathing matched Iorveth’s own.

“Still think you should elaborate. In case I’ve come to the wrong conclusion.”

The Elf raised a brow. “Still not blunt enough for you? How’s this then?” Iorveth put his mouth next to the curved shell of the Man’s ear. “Do you want to fuck me, Geralt?” he reached down and began to fondle the Man’s erection once more, causing Geralt to inhale sharply. “How would you do it? Would you have me on my back? All fours; like the beasts? Pushed up against the nearest wall?”

“How about all of the above?”

Iorveth bit his ear sharply and Geralt hissed. “It’s rude to interrupt, _dh’oine_. Perhaps I was hasty in my decision to bed you. But – since I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you one more chance.” He continued.

The Elf reached out and retrieved his headscarf. Geralt watched him intently, but remained silent.

Swiftly the Scoia’tael leader bound the cloth over the Man’s eyes, blinding him. He felt the Man tense, but he made no protest. The Elf stepped back to survey his handiwork.

“Got a thing for blindfolds?” Geralt inquired, evenly.

“They have their uses. But that’s not what I had in mind.”

“Don’t tell me we’re going to play ‘pin the tail on the donkey?’”

“What?”

“Children’s game. Never mind.”

“Well, it’s a game, of a sort. The rules are simple. Find me and I’ll let you have me.” Iorveth backed away slowly as he spoke, reaching the edge of the pool.

“That’s it?”

Iorveth climbed out from the springs.

“Count to fifty.”

 Silence. And then “One. Two –“

“In Elder Speech.”

Geralt swore at him.

Iorveth laughed as he disappeared into the trees.

 

0o0o0o0o

 

Iorveth didn’t go far. He already had a destination in mind. Easily locating the tree, he climbed upwards until he reached the flat platform supported by its branches. The canopy hid it from view, both from below and above, making it an excellent shelter. The _talan_ was another sign his forbears had once dwelled in these woods.

He listened to the sound of the wind through the trees, but could hear no movement below. Methodically he laid his gear down and removed his sodden pants, hanging them out to drip dry overnight. Naked, he moved over to the pile of blankets he’d bought from Vergen and wrapped himself in them. While _Aen Seidhe_ were not particularly troubled by the elements, they were a comfort he enjoyed.

Iorveth waited.

No sound alerted Iorveth; rather it was simply the feeling of being observed that announced Geralt’s arrival. The Man stripped and tossed his garments over a nearby branch, then more carefully placed Iorveth’s headscarf with them before advancing on the Elf. He knelt next to the blankets, pulling at a corner then sliding underneath until he pressed against Iorveth. Heat radiated off the warrior; his arousal digging into Iorveth’s hip.

“Nice spot.” Geralt commented. Then, “Tell me you normally cover your tracks better than that.”

“I normally cover my tracks better than that.” Iorveth replied drily, before reaching out for Geralt’s Witcher medallion. Geralt tensed, but did not move to stop him as Iorveth lifted it over his head and placed it within arm’s reach.

“You don’t trust my instincts, _Gwynbleidd?”_ Iorveth’s voice was brittle.

The words hung between them for a moment.

“…It’s never usually removed with my consent.” Geralt said evenly.

 _Only by force_ was the unspoken confession. Iorveth’s bitterness vanished.

 _“Quinganya linduva as macilya.”_ Iorveth vowed suddenly, surprising them both.

_My bow shall sing with your sword._

The pale-haired warrior regarded him for a moment, then reached out his hand. He slipped it behind Iorveth’s head, urging it closer. The Man touched their foreheads together – a traditional _Aen Seidhe_ gesture.

 _“Macilya linduva as quinganya.”_ Came the low response, Geralt’s breath mingling with his own.

_My sword shall sing with your bow._

And just like that, the words took on meaning far beyond the moment. The intensity of the feeling left Iorveth breathless. Unnerved, the leader of the Scoia’tael shied away from the implications and ran his hand through damp, moon-coloured hair.

“No more words Geralt. No more misunderstandings.”

The Witcher responded by closing the final space between them, sealing their mouths together. Iorveth hadn’t been teasing earlier when he’d said he’d expected the night to end roughly, up against a flat surface. He’d enjoyed many such encounters, as both the aggressor and the one who yielded.

But Geralt seemed content to move at a slower pace. His hands weren’t any less demanding, his body heated and unyielding as he rolled and trapped the Elf underneath him. Iorveth found himself responding to the other male’s actions, surrendering himself without fight. They moved in sync as their bodies found a rhythm, the Witcher demanding enjoyment from him even as he took his own pleasure. Their movements became instinctual as the night wore on, time blurred and hazy.

Finally they lay still and drowsed. Distantly, Iorveth registered the slickness between his legs, a satisfying ache in his body. He resisted slightly when the Witcher pulled him into an embrace, aware of the stickiness covering his abdomen, but Geralt would have none of it and he ended up pressed against the pale warrior.

Doubtless they would come to regret not cleaning up, but for now, Iorveth couldn’t bring himself to care. When Geralt showed no sign of moving, Iorveth closed his eye, lulled by the steady heartbeat and the warmth of the other’s body. A rare contentment stole over him.

He quietly acknowledged that the _vatt’ghern_ had somehow become more than an unlikely ally. He could still feel the pull towards this Man, though stronger now. Perhaps their fates were intertwined. Perhaps they would meet their end on the battlefield, or perhaps they would live to see a world born from the ashes.

But this small measure of peace was enough, for now…

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Was listening to a Witcher soundtrack on YouTube as I edited this. And what did I happen to see when I clicked back? Geralt in a spring! Skip to 12.30 if you are curious - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GYL6c_GTE0
> 
> Ah, these two! I've pulled my hair out over these guys!
> 
> I have had this story on my harddrive for over a year now. I'd originally imagined a different encounter for these two, but Iorveth and Geralt were having none of it, and resisted me every step of the way. I finally gave in and created something a bit more serious between them, at least in the end.
> 
> Iorveth was my absolute favourite character from the Witcher 2, and I feel his loss keenly in the 3rd game (which I am still not finished playing). At this stage, I don't have any intention of making this a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> A note on elvish:  
> I have used a blend of Witcher elvish and Tolkien elvish, since a comprehensive dictionary does not exist. Apologies if I have made a hash of anything or if I switched between elvish dialects.
> 
> Witcher Elvish:  
> dh'oine - human  
> Scoia’tael - squirrel (also the name of Iorveth's band)  
> Gwynbleidd - White Wolf  
> vatt'ghern - Witcher  
> Esseath bloede arse! - You are a bloody arse!  
> pavienn - ape  
> Aen Seidhe - the elder race / elves
> 
> Tolkien elvish:  
> talan - an open platform built into a tree. Useful for scouting, or dwelling in, depending on the type.  
> Quinganya linduva as macilya - My bow will sing with your blade. (I chose to interpret this as a vow of brotherhood, rather than a duel. I'm not sure what this phrase actually intends).  
> Macilya linduva as quinganya - My blade will sing with your bow


End file.
